The Mountain is Calling
by genghizcohen
Summary: Written for a prompt on livejournal. Bofur is homesick, and Bilbo is there for him. Changes to the plot made in the movie have been kept in.
1. Chapter 1

"Bilbo? What are you doing?"

It _would _be Bofur on watch tonight. That made everything harder, somehow. He would just have to get it over with quickly.

"I'm, ah… I'm going back. To Rivendell, first, and then to the Shire. This mountain is no place for a hobbit."

Bofur's face made Bilbo's stomach flip most unpleasantly. Must he look so… betrayed? No, bewildered might be a better term. As though he really hadn't seen this coming. As though he didn't want Bilbo to go. And sure enough, the dwarf protested;

"You can't leave! You're one of us."

Surely he couldn't believe that? Had he not heard Thorin's angry words, not noticed how Bilbo was always holding everyone back? If only he didn't look so horribly genuine all the blooming time. Bilbo steeled himself. If he didn't go through with this, he'd only make matters worse.  
_"_No, I'm not."  
_"_Look, you're homesick. I understand..." And something about Bofur's utter calm made Bilbo snap.  
_"_No, you don't! Because you haven't got a home, none of you do!  
He regretted the words as soon as they were said, not least because of the way they seemed to strike Bofur like a slap to the face.  
"I'm sorry..."

But Bofur was there before him, the dwarf's kindly manner seemingly unbruisable.  
_"_No, it's all right... you're right. We don't belong anywhere."

It seemed to Bilbo that a dark cloud of shame had enveloped him. He knew he was behaving dreadfully. To say all that he had said would never have been tolerated in respectable circles. Yet Bofur smiled gently on. And if he saw something different in the dwarf's eyes, it was quickly forgotten as his sword began to glow.


	2. Chapter 2

Bruised, battered and occasionally limping, the dwarves poured down the mountainside from the goblin cave until Gandalf called a halt in a conveniently sheltered place.

Bofur was aching all over, and couldn't seem to keep his eyes open for long at a time. He wasn't actually sleepy, but an immobilising exhaustion was spreading through him. It was as though a tiny messenger was running throughout his body, whispering to his component parts "what's the point, really? What difference would it make to anything if you just slumped down here and let go of everything for a while?" He put his shoulder to a handy tree trunk and tried to pay attention to the hubbub around him.

Eventually a cry got his attention. "The hobbit! Where is the hobbit?"

Oh. Balls. A quick glance around the group confirmed Bilbo's absence, and Bofur discovered that his stomach was suddenly very unsettled indeed. Their conversation of the night before still crouched spider-like in his mind. But Bilbo had fallen with them, he was sure of that. There was no telling the sort of danger he might be in. and Bofur was convinced in his own mind that all that the hobbit had said, much as it had stung, had been spoken out of fear and the confusion of the moment, not from a true desire to abandon them all. It must be so. It must. And yet… was it fair to the other dwarves to allow them to act without knowing all that Bofur did? To seek Bilbo would be to go back into danger- surely he owed them the right to make their own choice in the matter?

Even as he was considering these things, however, Thorin solved his dilemma for him. Bofur was surprised at how much anger Thorin was able to summon up after everything. Perhaps his king just had a different way of dealing with the pain of losing a member of their company. Still, it seemed a little much. Bofur was on the verge of stepping in to defend the hobbit, when-

"No, actually. The Burglar's right here!"

Bofur would later swear his heart had leapt straight into his ribcage. Certainly it felt that way. Rejoicing, he joined the clamour of voices cheering, welcoming, questioning, until Thorin silenced them to offer the hobbit his own question. Coincidentally, it was one Bofur was rather interested in the answer to as well.

Bilbo seemed to sense the question's importance, and when he spoke, it was with the weight of proper consideration, not the bluster of improvisation.

"I know you doubt me, I know you always have, and you're right. I often think of Bag End. I miss my books, and my arm chair, and my garden. See, that's where I belong; that's home." He took a breath, his eyes seeking out Bofur's before returning to Thorin's face. "And that's why I came back. 'Cause you don't have one...a home. It was taken from you, but I will help you take it back if I can."

A murmur of approval ran around the dwarves. Bofur realised he was wearing a silly grin, but didn't bother to let it drop. He was more bothered by the sudden heat behind his eyes. _Not now! _He told himself. Time enough for that later. Stop it. Stop.

The howling of wargs above them provided the distraction he needed to follow his own advice, but he was far from grateful for their assistance.


	3. Chapter 3

Fire. Fire again. Strange how quickly the scent of burning pines brought the old memories roaring back. As Bofur watched his king take up his sword, some small part of him wondered how much of Thorin was walking towards Azog and how much was walking away from the flames. Fire and the Pale Orc. Between them they had taken everything from their little group, and it seemed that they had teamed up to finish the job. So this is how it ends? he wondered. To fight or fall or burn, and never to see the halls of my fathers again?

Surely it was better to die fighting? And yet his feet seemed rooted to the groaning tree trunk beneath them. Hot shame coursed through his veins with every blow exchanged between Thorin and the Defiler, but he could not move. What was he now? What sort of dwarf would stand by to watch his leader die?

And when Thorin was defended at last, it was no dwarf that took up arms, to stand between king and killer. In this place, even Bilbo is more of a dwarf than I am, Bofur decided.

Even as talons closed about his waist, he thought: a forest is no place for a dwarf to die.


	4. Chapter 4

Just a month ago, Bilbo would not have believed he would go so weak at the knees at the sight of proper beds. Whatever else you might say about Beorn, he was a conscientious host. The dwarves and himself were very comfortably provided for in three spacious rooms at the top of the house. Gandalf, requiring his furniture to be on a somewhat larger scale, had been given a room elsewhere.

The straw mattress was more comfortable than Bilbo had dared hope for, and the little hobbit was asleep within moments. Yet tired as he was, his sleep was broken, as it had often been of late. The first time he started awake in a sweat it took him some minutes to realise that it had not been all a dream, that this was not his own bed, and that his troubles went further than a late supper and a tricky bit of kipper. It took him longer to find sleep again. As he lay in the darkness the sounds of scuffling and growling came from outside the house, and there was a noise like something scraping at the door. Perhaps it is Beorn in his enchanted form, thought Bilbo, though the thought was not exactly a comforting one. He tried to recall to himself Gandalf's words; "I once saw him sitting all alone on the top of the Carrock at night watching the moon sinking towards the misty mountains, and I heard him growl in the tongue of bears: "The day will come when they will perish and I shall go back!"" Perhaps he was just roaming in a contemplative mood, as any hobbit might take an evening stroll, to settle the stomach and the mind after a supper or so. Yet Bilbo's mind would not leave Gandalf's warnings about the fierceness of Beorn's anger, and he drew the covers up over his head.

The second time, he woke more gently, having become altogether too warm and smothered in his improvised cocoon. He shuffled out from under the blankets and tried to settle again. But as he lay there he became aware of a new sound in the room. Bilbo had lived alone for many years, but he could still recognise the sound of someone trying and failing to cry quietly.

Rolling onto his side, he tried to work out where the sound was coming from. It seemed to be coming from the bed to his right. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could see that his ears had not misled him. He couldn't see much else, though- the dwarf appeared to be a mound of blankets. Now, who had been given the bed next to his? Oh.

"Bofur?"

At the sound of his voice, the dwarf stiffened under his covers. He seemed to be holding his breath. Probably hoping that Bilbo would take the hint and go away. But Bilbo couldn't just leave him to cry. Haltingly, he reached out a hand and placed it lightly on the blanket-bulge that seemed most likely to hide a shoulder.

"Bofur, what is it? What's wrong?"

It seemed that a tremor ran through the dwarf at Bilbo's words, and when Bofur spoke, the crack in his voice betrayed the lie in his words.

"Nothing's wrong, Bilbo. Go back to bed."

"No." Bilbo surprised himself at the speed with which the word left his mouth, but made no attempt to apologise for it. Instead, he perched himself on the edge of Bofur's bed to wait, saying,

"I won't go away, Bofur. I shan't move from this spot until you tell me what the matter is."

A snort of suppressed laughter came from the bundle of blankets beside him. Bofur wriggled himself into a sitting position, though he kept his face turned away from Bilbo.

"So," he whispered; "It seems that hobbits can be just as stubborn as dwarves when they put their minds to it, eh, Mr Baggins?" It seemed to Bilbo that he was scrubbing at his face while he spoke.

"Yes indeed." He retorted. "When there is something worth being stubborn about. Come on, Bofur. What is it?"

Bilbo returned his hand to Bofur's shoulder, and the dwarf turned to face him, tear-trails still visible here and there in his beard. Bilbo found that he didn't really know how to respond to the sight. He still wasn't used to dwarves being vulnerable. Still, Bofur was obviously in pain, even as he tried once more to deny it.

"I've just been thinking a bit too deeply, that's all. It's really… it's really nothing-" Bofur's voice squeaked and failed him, and he broke off, trying to regain his control. His eyes screwed shut again, and Bilbo could see the violent movement of his Adam's apple as the dwarf tried to repress his tears.

Instinctively, he flung his arms around Bofur as he had done to others when he was a child and couldn't quite understand why an adult was sad. The dwarf was surprisingly soft to hold, and, this close, smaller than Bilbo had expected. He kept his stiffness for a moment, and then surrendered to a fit of sobs that sent spasms shuddering through his whole body. Bilbo just held him a little closer and waited.

It was strangely peaceful, he found, holding someone like this. It felt as though the whole universe was shrinking around them, until Bilbo would have been quite prepared to believe that nothing existed beyond the quietness that enveloped the two of them.

Eventually, Bofur pulled away with a sigh, and set to scrubbing at his face with his sleeves again.

"I'm sorry, Bilbo. I've no right to be this way."

"Don't talk like that." Bilbo admonished him. "You would feel the same way whether or not you showed it, and you can't make feelings like that go away by telling yourself you've no right. Everyone's got the right to feel occasionally."

Bofur smiled at the Hobbit's stern tone, and bowed his head awkwardly.

"Perhaps so. Bilbo, do you know how it feels to… well, it might be that a dwarf, or a Hobbit, or anyone, might get upset over a tiny bobbet of a thing, less because it carried much weight of itself, but maybe it struck that part of that dwarf's heart that had been struck many times before and wanted but a spray of rain to set it bleeding?" Bofur squirmed a little on the bed, and raised an arm to cover his face again. Bilbo drew it firmly away, mitigating the sternness of the action somewhat by taking the dwarf's hand in his own.

"I know that my Aunt Belba once cried over a dropped cheese because Grandpa Mungo used to have wonderfully safe hands for dairy." Bilbo wasn't sure how to show his understanding in clearer terms, but Bofur seemed satisfied, so he was content to be quiet and let the dwarf gather his thoughts.

"When Gandalf was talking to us earlier about Beorn it set me down a dark train of thought."

Bofur shuffled closer to Bilbo as he sought for the right words to express himself.

"It feels as though there are so many displaced people, and we're all wandering the wastes with our little dreams of home. I just feel… I feel so small, Bilbo. Men like Beorn are so strong. He's willing to wait, to endure whatever may come until the day he can return. And he's so confident that that day will come, even if he has to outlive every Goblin in the Misty mountains.

I couldn't do that. I couldn't live so long and stay so strong, I- I miss my home. I miss my little chamber with its little hearth. I miss the days when everything was in its right place and we knew, somehow, that it would last forever. Foolish little dreams. Just tiny people, clinging to our tiny piece of the wide world, imagining that we were somehow special."

He let go of the rest of his breath in a low sigh, and let himself lean into the hobbit beside him. Bilbo reached an arm about his shoulders and let a long moment pass before speaking.

"I'm just a stay-at-home hobbit. Bofur. I don't know much of great kingdoms and wide worlds, but I can't believe for a moment that what you dwarves are striving for doesn't matter. There may be many people lost in the wilderness, but they are not all alike. You have been wanderers for a long time, Bofur, but you were never lost. You have always known where you belong. That's important. It's a sign that no matter how far you go, your anchor is holding firm in Erebor. That's something Smaug couldn't take from you, that Azog couldn't make you forget. It's what sets you apart from all the nations you wandered amongst, that helped you to hold on to what it means to be dwarves. You remember the way things are meant to be."

Bofur's breathing had become more even, but he remained silent, curled against Bilbo's side. Not quite sure where the words were coming from, nor the nerve to speak them, Bilbo pressed on.

"Bofur… I think, perhaps- perhaps the reason for this quest, the reason that everything and everyone seems to have come together all at once, is that it's time for you to go home. Perhaps the mountain is calling its people home, and you are the ones who were listening out for it. And that makes you unable to wait any longer.

That anchor, that longing for your home- it's not a weakness, as long as it drives you onwards. If you let it turn to despair, then it holds you back. But, you know… you've held on to the seeds of hope for so long, keeping them safe through so much hardship… it's time to let them bloom.

You will see your home again, Bofur, I know it."

And now there was a response from the dwarf. As silently as he had listened to Bilbo's words, he slid his arms around the hobbit and drew him into a second embrace. This time, there were no tears, only the peace of the night, and companionship. Eventually, Bofur gently drew away.

"Thank you, Bilbo."

Not having a proper response ready, Bilbo was embarrassed to hear "Oh, it was no trouble." come out of his mouth automatically. From the expression on Bofur's face, he guessed his blush was visible even in the darkness. Suitably abashed, he moved to return to his own cot, but felt Bofur's hand suddenly grasp at his wrist.

Bilbo turned back, a brief frown passing across forehead. This time it seemed to be the dwarf who was wrestling with embarrassment.

"Bilbo- would you stay a while? When you're here, somehow home doesn't seem so very far away."

Smiling, Bilbo swung his legs back onto the mattress.

"Of course, Bofur. I'll be here as long as you need me to be."

And, feeling somehow that no more words were needed, he lay down next to the dwarf in silence. A moment later, Bofur joined him. The two of them lay facing each other, their slow breathing the only sound to be heard. It was comforting and warm, just being close. It was enough.

At first Bilbo put his arm around Bofur to keep himself from accidentally rolling out of bed. But before too long the two were utterly entwined, Bilbo's smooth cheek resting gently against one of Bofur's braids.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun was just beginning to make its presence felt beyond the horizon when Bilbo woke. He lay as still as he could for a time, not wanting to wake Bofur by disentangling their legs. Bilbo didn't mind, though. It seemed a needless waste of comfort to drag himself out of the cosy little hollow their bodies had made in the mattress.

After all too short an interlude, the dwarf's eyes fluttered blearily open, and he squirmed awkwardly out of their unconscious embrace.

"Get away wi'ye, hobbit." He mumbled. Bilbo took the hint. The night was over, and the chapter closed. He scrambled back to his own bed, not prepared to play the part of early riser unless forced to. But as he lay there in the grey half-light, inspiration struck.

He rummaged amongst his belongings until he found the remains of some paper he had somehow felt it necessary to bring from Bag End. There wasn't much of it, so instead of his usual scribbling, crossing and blotting, he was careful to arrange the words to his satisfaction in his head before he copied them down. When he had finished, he surveyed his work with a critical air.

"Well, I'm no bard," he sighed. "But I think he will understand."


	6. Chapter 6

Come the morning, the dwarves left Bilbo to sleep late, and there was general joking about hobbit sensibilities over breakfast, interspersed with speculation concerning the whereabouts of both Gandalf and Beorn. Thorin was resting late as well, partly, it was suspected, to placate Balin, who had been fussing over his wounds like a mother hen the night before.

Bofur decided to take advantage of the day's leisure to effect some maintenance on his flute. The clarinet had been too bulky to bring on this quest, but even his small flute was unlikely to have taken kindly to their disorderly flight from the Goblin King's caverns. He had been too preoccupied yesterday to have a proper look, so he braced himself for the worst and went to get it from his pack.

When he came to it, however, he found a folded scrap of paper tucked into the very top of his bag, with a note scribbled on the back: "For the journey." Puzzled, he unfolded the paper, and read the short poem written in careful, neat letters upon it.

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes new hope shall awaken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall be halls that were darkened,_

_The crownless again shall be king_

Rough indeed, and not at all in the dwarfish style, but touching nonetheless. Bofur felt as though it caused something to swell inside his chest, and he realised he was smiling at it like an imbecile.

He didn't have much time to ponder it, though, as Fili announced his presence with a jovial punch to Bofur's shoulder blade.

"What's that, Bofur? Someone sent you a love-ballad?"

Bofur only laughed and gave the younger dwarf a wallop on the shoulder in return that sent him tumbling over the bed behind him, to the great amusement of everyone else.

As they laughed, Bofur slipped the little note snugly into the fold of his clothes, just above his heart. As he went about his day, he could have sworn that it was producing a warmth all of its own…


End file.
